


Hummingbird

by Buttercup_Bee



Series: Pedro Pascal Character Collection [2]
Category: Prospect (2018)
Genre: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dubious Consent, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Older Man/Younger Woman, Personal Canon, Rape/Non-con Elements, Reader Replaces Cee, Reader-Insert, Sexual Content, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:27:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28036926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Buttercup_Bee/pseuds/Buttercup_Bee
Summary: A prospecting mission alongside your brother goes wrong, and you are trapped with the very man who would have killed you, Ezra. Circumstance leads to dependence, and against all odds, attraction.(On Hiatus)
Relationships: Ezra (Prospect 2018)/Reader
Series: Pedro Pascal Character Collection [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2032768
Comments: 11
Kudos: 33





	Hummingbird

**Author's Note:**

> I've watched the movie twice now, and decided I'd write an alternate storyline and make it my own, with the same basic outline. Though there will be major changes made, while this chapter is fairly close to the encounter of Cee and Ezra, it will change by a far margin in the next chapter. I really hope whoever reads it likes it, as it's fairly niche. The Reader is at least eighteen years younger than him, as Ezra is 42. It's a large age gap, and if that makes you uncomfortable I understand and suggest you click away. This fic will deal with adult themes such as sexual assault, abuse, drug addiction, and death. I'm not going to dance around it, so keep that in mind as you go forward. 
> 
> If you'd like to, I have tumblr where I post other fics: buttercup--bee. Feel free to follow!

You’d followed Isaac’s, your _brothers,_ instructions accordingly. Much to your chagrin, your fear, the unsteady grip of the rifle further accentuated under duress. The man who is at the opposite end of the barrel lowers his thrower, though you’re unsure if the second is even human. He’s broad, tall, and the figure is not one you’d seen on a human man before. 

The other, as far as you were from him, stood out with his hooded gaze and the awe he blanched. He roved your figure, the distinct dips of your features, stagnant and disbelieving. 

“Now this is something I have never seen,” he’d declared, dark eyes hawkish, “in all my time in the Green, a _woman_.” you frown under the observation, his attention stapled to you until he is content. The tonality shifts, head tilted to the side once he’s confirmed your presence, drifting back to your brother with a taut frown. 

However, Ezra, if you remembered correctly, drifts back to you over and over until you’re certain he’s decided you are more important than the rummaging Isaac enacts, haphazardly sifting through their belongings in search of something worth all the effort. A reward. 

It’s then, when the recollection of his demands emerge, that you realize you were the distraction. You’d known it from the beginning, but the expectation had been the large rifle would be the cause of their concern, not you yourself. Kevva, you should have known, even in your panic it was obvious and you chose to ignore it. Subconscious or not. It’s not as if he was above it, using you to meet his personal ends. Seeing a woman prospecting, let alone in general, is a rare sight in today's galaxy. 

Disease has ravaged humankind and the cost had been the populace of the female sex. Humanity is dwindling, and even now amidst the clearing and mauve haze, you can see the tell-tale shock in the man’s gaze; the piqued interest, perhaps thirst, when your brother all but disappears from his mind. 

And in your peripheral you note the larger one is keen on you as well. You’re sure it’s likely been years since they’ve seen a breathing, speaking woman. Out here in the fringe, women were more likely to die than do anything of worth, and as such most kept to the inner rings. It frightens you more than the perilous situation your brother has decided to embark on.

You can’t help the tremble in your arms, the sway when you attempt to readjust your aim, and they both see it. Pits dredges at your gut until your throat goes dry, stories of the few women who leave the confined protection of civilized government seeping into you. 

Their rape, death, the trade or profit when happening on someone like yourself. What would you do if things went badly? It’s not as if you were tactless, but there is a reason women make themselves sparse in a male dominated profession. Always has been in prospecting, more so after the sickness.

Ezra gleams at you, interest formed in the width of your hips to the concealment of your chest. You squirm under his intense gaze, and you’d have avoided his eyes if it weren’t for the life or death situation you’d been thrown into. 

The sheath of dewy cedar eyes snaps when Isaac cackles, the tension filling to the brim when he’s sat a steel shell of a case down on a slab of stone, practically humming in delight in his findings. You want to ask what it is, if you should be concerned or prepared for worse - especially when you catch a glimpse of the other man’s bruising glower.

“Isaac,” that deep baritone sends a shiver down your spine, it’d been so long since you’d spoken to anyone but your brother, “does this mean that the plan is off? You had me all up and bothered over the Queen’s Lair.” 

Isaac doesn’t bother to answer, blatantly ignoring Ezra with a pointed glare. However, when he realizes there is a lock keeping him out of the case, he’s jagged. Your attention drifts from the two, the larger prospector’s helm dimmed but you know he’s leering your way. You can feel it, the way he hunches, the unsettling posture he takes up in the grass. 

Shuffling over to Ezra, Isaac holds out the case expectantly. “Open it.” He demands, his body visibly tense from where you stand. You can only imagine how he must appear up close. And you know that doesn’t bode well in your situation. 

Ezra sighs, clenches his hands in a dramatic manner, accent accentuated with a divided degree between his baritone. “Alright, you can have your fabled spoils all to yourself,” he drawls, “but if the lair is true, this is just a scratch.” Ezra reasons, shrugging his shoulders. 

Shifting, you quickly peer over at the sturdy, large man, then shudder when the pause between the pair lasts. 

“Isaac,” your fingers pinch at the weighted metal, enough so they must be straining, “can we go?” You didn’t want to stay to prolong the inevitable. There is a dense traction clawing at your person, demanding you run, hide, find someplace safe. To make matters worse, Isaac didn’t respond, didn’t even give you an impression he’d heard you.

Ezra smirks, though a piece of it, just under the layers of irritation, lies pity. Perhaps something along the lines of consideration and the working guilt poking it’s way out. 

His arms falter, facing your brother, “You should listen to her, no harm done yet.” No response, only an aggravated press of the throwers barrel against Ezra’s helm. 

“Open it.” 

It’s not a request, it’s a demand. Swallowing thickly, your heart rushes at your ears, blood pumping rapidly until your stomach lurches. Why did he have to be so insistent? Why couldn’t he just listen to you and escape before it all got worse?

An elongated delay fills the distance between you and them, Ezra pinched and locked onto you intently. As if pending on the matter that involved you, a bystander dragged into your brother's scheme, piercing and all consuming until he measures up your obvious terror. The complexity of emotion flicking across your features has him frowning in defeat, a dreadful sigh escaping him. 

He fiddles with the case that’s handed to him, working it open with deft fingers. “It’s a shame Isaac,” the case hisses open, “we could have been rich together.”

The thrower in your brother's grip is still aimed at Ezra, walking back and putting the case back onto the slab of stone. He opens it, a sly smirk gracing his lips. From where you stand, you sense the utter glee he exudes. It wafts off him in waves, a snigger of disbelief bursting out of him. 

“Little sister,” he chimes, delight in his tone and the title he lays at your feet, it’s as condescending as it always has been; the detonation of pride shrill in your ears, “maybe we won’t have to keep running after all.” you want to cry, yell, scream even; but nothing comes out, only a faint gasp and the choked attempt to inhale. 

Ezra is looking at you again, glowered and dark, and from the corner of your eye, the towering block of the second man is darting for his rail gun. Isaac is quick to respond, instinct alert and prepared. He shoots the man one, twice, three times until he falls, his own shot missing Isaac by a hair's breadth. 

You can’t voice your horror, agape and shaking and the rifle you wield succumbs to your fear. The assumption, as you’d suppose, would have been the death of Ezra. But your brother, your own flesh and blood, he gawks between you and the man and bolts with his aurelac without a second thought. Leaves you vulnerable and afraid - as if you were nothing more but a piece to his winnings that he could spare. 

The stand still is only prolonged by Ezra’s shock, it mocks your own in a way. What else should you have expected from the same man who’s ignored you always, your thoughts never heard. A coward through and through.

And yet a distant part of you, hopeful and naïve, had wanted to believe he would protect you. As your father once had. Sucking in a breath, you jump once Ezra has a thrower back in his possession. Stumbling, you nearly fall backwards at the sight. He lifts a brow, expecting a draw, a fight, his gander elevated in his stance.

Though nothing happens on his end, a dangerous glint in his eye forthcoming and dripping with apprehension. You think of the distance you are from the pod, his height, stature, how quickly you can run; by your estimate, he’s faster, they usually are. He could easily overpower you, do as he pleased, your stress heightened ten fold once the idea sets itself in stone. Sinking into the very depths of your worst fears and your lower lip quivers. 

But he doesn’t move, merely studies your limbs, the effort to keep yourself from making a wrong move. When his thrower falters you see your opening, and you spring from where you stand. 

You don’t look back, you don’t want to. Instead you run as far as your legs can carry you. You sprint until your tendons beg for peace, your lungs burnt and withered, sternum screaming in pain. And still you run, fight off the exhaustion for as long as you can. 

Once you’ve reached the abandoned pod, you heave, gasp, grab at your chest as you rush inside. You hoped like hell that you could get the craft airborne, you had to. Though you knew the chances were slim to none. It’d become useless once you’d hit the atmosphere. Wholly unprepared for such circumstances, you seize, barely managing to cross the pods inner threshold. 

Once you do, you tear at your helmet, floundering at the controls as your brother had done a million times over. 

It doesn’t work. 

* * *

The next twenty minutes or so is spent in silence. Clad in your normal attire had given you a sense of endangerment, somehow, in a way you didn’t understand. As if the fight were not over just yet. But you had convinced yourself the trauma continued its course.

Even so, you trembled as you flipped through your worn journal, the pages thin from use. It isn’t yours, it hadn’t been filled with your musings or experiences. It’d been your moms, each detail laden in joy, heartache, and love. It kept you at ease most of the time. Times like when your brother drank too much, or blissed out on some new form of drug he’d managed to find. 

The same nights he would visit your rooms and attempt more than he should, try and press himself into someone he shouldn’t. It’d never crossed the line you worried most. It still haunts you, nerves frayed at the memory, and this journal has been and still is the only thing to keep you afloat. 

A promise that it could be better. That you could find a life outside the one that’d been chosen for you. 

Your thoughts are disrupted by a hiss, heavy clinks of metal shifting behind gears and wires. Momentarily, you freeze, nails dug into the leather bound book as you listen. Keen, frantic, you scatter upwards until you’ve got the rifle in hand. Charging it in a hurry as the next door between the Green and the pod slide open. It is then you can hear the weight of another, and you hope dearly it’s your brother. 

You hope partly because you had some idea of how to deal with him, and the other part being an awoken anger that had finally barreled into you. Would you shoot Isaac if it was him? Would you kill him for leaving you once again? You’re afraid of the answer and decide to drop it, not interested in learning that piece of you.

It fades as quickly as it had come, the charge finished, you piston it against your shoulder. Leaning backwards until the main lift of the pod’s floor has concealed you from the entrance. You can hardly make out who enters, his breathing heavy, but it hits you as soon as you make out the suit.

Without thinking, fight or flight hoisting you towards a high, you flex the trigger. The kickback bruises your shoulder, your elbow smacking down against the surface of the pod, and his wail of pain is enough to have you wince more so for him than yourself. 

He spins, hand clasped over just above his collar bone, near his shoulder - how you had hit such a small target you don’t know - and rips the rifle from your grasp. The jammed clank of it echoing as he throws it, all consideration thrust out the proverbial window.

When you catch his eye you immediately recognize the dark, lidded gaze, the prominent strand of white, and patchy stubble that must itch.

Ezra’s brow is pinched, fury leaden as he stumbles back on his ass, pulling out his own weapon of choice. Like a cornered animal, you cower, gawking at the thrower aimed at your head. Angrily, he shirks his helmet off, struggling for a moment, though recovers before you have a chance to move. Agitation, that’s what adorns his complexion. It settles in your gut, uneasy and unyielding. 

He heaves, the back of his throat lurching out a deep groan. The man scans the pod, this way and that, then nods your direction. 

“You got a field kit?”

You don’t know what to say, sentiment dispersed and cohesive speech unavailable. He furrows once more, grounds his jaw as he slams his leg down twice, the effort commanding - in a way that makes you flinch.

Even now, injured, you are afraid of what he can do. “Field kit,” he repeats, voice dying, his grip tightening at his shoulder. You can see the blood there, the crimson seeping between his fingers. Careful and slow, you rise to inch forward, studying Ezra as he rips his microphone from his head. 

The thrower, still in his palm, is dangling outwards in his careless frustration, head bent back and lids shut. You launch forward and have it in your possession before he has time to react. 

It’s not as if he could have used his dominant arm anyways, the pain you knew all too well would be overwhelming, if not stunting his movement. 

You don’t know what to do when he absorbs what just happened, and laughs. He really, truly chortles. It’s arid and loose, but it exists. Dangles in the shared space like a bell, his smile both rueful and bemused. 

It ends swiftly, cut off like a jab at you, a joke you didn’t get. His legs swat the ground again, an unrest tingling at his limbs. His eyes stay with yours, a drained approach in his gasp, and he asks “You gonna shoot?” 

Nothing comes from you, the silence in tandem with your heart. And if his expression was anything to go by, you physically must look as wrecked as you feel. 

“You almost shot me,” you understand the hypocrisy, that didn’t make it any less painful. 

A small smirk lifts his lips, “That is technically true,” he tilts his head, slumping and clasping at the thick liquid spilling from his arm. You break the contact in thought and stumble forwards when he shouts “Kevva waits girl, shoot or help!” you waver, thrower heavy as stone in your hands, “Just make a move.” He contours in a heavy lilt, as if he awaits death, is ready for it, and your stomach drops. 

Your natural inclination is to help, but you knew no man to be kind in his occupation. You couldn’t just give way without something to keep him in line, for your survival and his. This much you knew. Readjusting your aim, you pout. 

“Here is what you’re going to do,” you ground out, “you will lead me to your ship, and fly me into connection orbit for the slingback. In exchange, I won’t kill you.” Inwardly, you scold yourself, your resonance is fragile and not as challenging as you’d hoped it to be. “I don’t want...I will, if I need to.”

He swallows, “Get me a field kit,” the way he meets you half-way, the gentle acknowledgment of your statement has a brief effect on him. “Then we can talk.”

You want to squeeze, in the sort of way you do under a blanket to hide, rigid under whatever monster you thought you saw. The both of you know you don’t have much of a choice regardless of what you want, he’d need some semblance of help after the injury you gave him, otherwise any deal made would be unfinished. 

Peering upwards where the kit sits, you eye him as you quickly grab it, letting it fall to the floor and kicking it his direction. The way he moves is staggering, nimble and quick, if you didn’t know any better you would have thought the wound hadn’t hindered him anymore than a cut would. A piece of you falls, the other in awe. 

Maintaining the stance you had once built, thrower unsteady as he scoots and pulls at his gloves. It’s unlikely that he’ll make a move, not with a barrel trained on him, but you shook all the same. It felt as if all the balance in you had been swept away at seeing the ease in which he maneuvered. 

It’s something you’d rather not dwell on, the length of his body or the breadth of his shoulders. Sometimes it’s easy to forget that others were larger than you, your brother hadn’t been tall or imposing. His only formidable trait had been his temper. 

That, paired with your lack of social intervention, well...that didn’t leave you with a lot of perspective. Seeing a man now, up close and not from a distance on a station is admittedly odd. Even if the situation deems it far worse than your curiosity. 

The feeling left you hollow, in a sense, unable to depict between your fright and interest, as unorthodox as it is. Perhaps holding a thrower at a man who held no higher ground meant power, your distress at the idea tangible. Something you rein in, even if it’s just a little. 

Ezra rummages the kit, opens a beige bottle with his teeth and sloshes the liquid over the wound. You grimace, expectant of what is to come next, the chunky spray gun uncapped. He prepares in large gulps of air, seals his eyes shut tight, and levers the trigger - the moment it meets his open muscle it bubbles, rises, and seethes into foam. 

His groans that follow pull from you your thin rage, an ill-sodden empathy and a thimble of regret digging at your sternum. You’d had done the same once, as a child, though it’d been an injury to the leg in a chance encounter with a Warbler. You had been, what? Eight, nine? 

The sting and burn of that bactospray still a vivid memory. The singe of flesh, bone, and taut tendon alive and well in your mind. 

He ushers back up against the wall of the pod, and throws back the pain medication. Another wince, mouth dry as you lower your weapon without thought, he chews it all in a desperate need for relief. 

A minute passes by the time he has settled, coughing, large palm held at the collar of his suit. You don’t mean to stare, the tawny strain of his hand imposing, though welcome. The veins are what capture your interest, the thick fingers -

A step back, and you realize the thrower is facing the ground. He lifts his brow line, the relative decision surprising. Whether it was on purpose or not didn’t matter, and you can’t help but grumble at your carelessness. 

A beat wherein time falls, his breath thunder, silence encasing the two of you in uncertainty; it simmers until you’re fisting the thrower with an intense effort

Luckily, he’s the first to speak. “Your offer is indeed generous, and I would be more than happy to sign and seal, save for one glaring slip.” You scrunch your eyes, lips pursed, “My ship.”

Abdomen falling to the abyss, your mind reels, “You don’t have a ship?” you inquire, disbelief pressing at you whole. 

Irritated, he kicks a leg up to get himself comfortable, shifting. “Well, I did,” he grunts, “then there was an event with my crew concerning a bit of auralac - words and metal flew. And now I don’t.” The confirmation bites hard and deep, tears at your throat until all you can do is gape. 

That’s why he’d asked your brother about the pod. Inwardly scolding yourself for missing such a blaringly obvious fact, you sour. 

His rich rasp dances at your ears, “We’re in the same trough, you and I.” Glancing around the space, he adds “Can’t say I was pleased to find your pod lying cuckways, as she was supposed to be my redemption as well.”

In place of your scrutiny rises displeasure, pistoning your thrower level with his head. Wide eyed, he shakes his head. 

“Woah,” he brings himself forward, arm outstretched in askance, and you listen. “Just slow down a beat there, hummingbird,” the name is intoned in a gentle outreach, careful and sweet, so much so you barely catch it “at least wait for the counter offer.” The declaration eases you somewhat. 

The clutch of your fists, however, don’t. “Why would I listen to you?” 

“How is it you intend to get home?” He doesn’t answer, no, he digs further at your lack of preparation. He has you and you both know it. “That is the goal, am I right?”

Narrowed, honed, your gaze pierces him the same as your shot had. You don’t say a word or acknowledge the glint of momentary satisfaction in his dark hue. Being so out of your depth is proving you vulnerable, and the realization makes you weaker for it. 

Ezra huffs. “The mercs, the Queen's Lair,” a pause, “they’re real aren’t they?” his hum of certification pits you nervous, brutally open and distinct. 

Another lack of reply has him relaxing into his spot once again. How do you respond to that without sounding small, his leer possessive as it is dangerous. His smile is what irks you the most, defined in a procured elation. 

You want to smack it from his face, though you are in no position to do it. Yes, you have the upper hand, but he had the experience. You didn’t want to be any closer to him than you had to be. 

It clicks then, “You are making a run for them,” you hadn’t thought of it, but you didn’t have the time to do it either since you returned. You let him continue on, drilling his execution deeper inside. “Listen, I know you want vengeance -”

“Quiet,” you mutter, shaking your head. 

Intervention or not, he ignores it, “I admit, have frequently indulged, and I have not often found regret. But in this moment, here, I’m afraid for both our sakes I must riposte.” He allows his comment to sink in, waits for it to have enough impact, “I say we go to your mercs, I play the prospector, and together we ravage the Queen.” 

By Kevva, is this all he could think of? Even now, with a thrower pointed at him? You could hardly believe it, and yet you weren’t as surprised as you should be. 

“I don’t trust you,” another step back, distance - distance is what you need, his gaze overwhelming. “I don’t believe you either.”

A genuine frown tugs at his mouth, a dimple at his left cheek indented, prominent even. “I’m trying to help you.” It’s said with such conviction you almost believe him, almost want to, and the outcome aggravates you. “I can harvest, I can offer protection. A woman like you, alone on the Green wanders into a camp of fringy mercs raw, and at the end of tour. And what happens? You appeal to their sympathies?” 

A savaged group of men, you alone, the reality is not subtle. 

“They have none,” he affirms, “they are ruthless profiteers, you must have something to offer them or they will find something to take from you.” The insinuation is not lost on you, nor is the worried knit at his brow, the shallow rake of his gaze; the halt it takes at the tight strain of cotton against your breasts, skimming the spread of your hips, punctuating his point.

And yet, you don’t budge despite your better judgement. “You stole from us,” you ground out, forcing your voice to not waver, to not give away any weakness, “we did nothing to you, absolutely nothing.” 

“That’s the fringe, girl.” his bronze complexion reeks of sympathy, though not strong enough to end this it seems. “You want to point fingers at extortion, well, then there’s not much I can say.” 

“Then you threatened me,” you reason. 

“Now hold on,” he lifts a brow, “I’m keen to make the case that you were a threat, first and foremost.” upset pools at your belly, frustration boiling. 

“We were trying to escape -”

“You were trying to steal my trophy case is what you were trying to do!” you shake your head, stern, dejected. “A man's work is no petty thing,” 

“That wasn’t me, it was my brother.” it’s a whisper, small and defeated.

Ezra exhales, grazes your face searching for something, anything. And seemingly he’s found what he wants, the tension beginning to fade. “To you, I truly apologize for my contribution in your endangerment, but that brother of yours was stealing my entire harvest. And actions like these ferment an appropriate reaction. Your brother knew that, and if he didn’t he had no business in the Green.”

Tears prick at your eyes, pressure building at the back of your nose. Swaying, your hold on the thrower near slips, lips parted and drawn. “You would have killed him,” and then, nausea swirling, you add “you would have killed me.”

He blinks, a simple action that left you barren, cold even. “I would have, indeed,” his chin lifts, challenging, “but would you?” 

What were you to say? That he was right, that you quell at the mere idea of death, that the right mind should. You’d never asked for this, never wanted to scour the Green let alone any other forsaken moon. It’s been forced upon you, as everything else in your life has been. 

It was written all over your face, the lack of intel, and he had read into the detail before you had been able to mask it. You wish, desperately, that you were home. Far away from here. But wishes don’t come true, your jaw twitches at the fact. With a swallow, a gulp of air, you let the thrower fall to your hip. 

“It was all in the name of self preservation, birdie, it was nothing personal.” 

“Shut up,” 

“I’m your safest route and in the end we’ll both be rich.”

He was right, and you hated him for it. Gnawing at the inside of your cheek, you sit at the floor, deflated. “Even split.” 

You don’t leave his infliction of a leer, daring him to defy you, even if you are both certain you’d fail in an attempt to stop his imagined coup.

A passing selection of repose flits across his person, then a playful assertion takes its spot. 

“Of course.” It’s a mockful impression of sincerity, a spiteful gesture that irks every piece of your body. “And one more thing, my filters spent,” a jovial smirk plays at his lips, tapping at the hunk of metal at his chest. “I’ll need a hookup.” 

Pitiful, you think, left to fend for yourself - abandoned by your brother, nowhere near prepared for the unforgiving moon. Kevva, you were matched with a man without mercy, a man who had admitted he would have killed you, a man who only cared when it was his life on the line, and you’re _pitiful_. 

You had no choice, and the reality sets in a horrendous, stomach dropping nausea. Limbs numb and mind fuzzed, the action felt more a rapid, stilted dream than real life. Searching for the hook up, you fight back the urge to cry. 

Ezra is all you have now, and that _horrifies_ you. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I really appreciate it!


End file.
